Φιλοσοφική Τραγωδία

Today I drank afternoon wine
raised up to mother who loves me
like no woman ever can
or could.

I thought of Greek gates 
and dancing alive in marble robes
           the philosophers so bent
over with too much knowledge
           excruciating on their heads
pulling in the curly fleece of beards
           they lean and need to rest
on the backs of beautiful young 
           boys skin
so fresh olive tan
           glistening with sweet salt sweat
and all that oil crushed
           straight from trees
           they break bread
           and dip it in
           soak sup enjoy
with clay jug of wine
and the rubber chew
of goat’s blessing.

Evening now in the drunken museum,
my temporary affection grips my arm,
and her finger traces body contours
of me and those
stoic statues.

He rarely spoke to me,
but adolescence brought a good man 
who told me everything,
and when I realised
mere existence is all,
I wept and carved this folly on the bust,
still reflective in his musty drawing room,
at the centre of daedal halls – 
carved from oak 
and daubed in deep olive green.

            Alexis Hercules